


They're in love, your honour

by valdomarx (cptxrogers)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 11,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptxrogers/pseuds/valdomarx
Summary: A collection of mostly fluffy geraskier ficlets originally posted on Tumblr, in which they are dumb and in love.Featuring classic tropes like: hearing each other's thoughts, accidentally married, mutual pining and, of course, there was only one bed.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 56
Kudos: 141





	1. Geralt doesn’t fall in love

**Author's Note:**

> It was high time I archived all the ficlets I wrote this year to AO3. I'll add one ficlet per chapter to keep them organised, but fair warning that tagging may be sporadic so proceed at your own risk. Nothing terribly angsty here though, mostly just fluff and humour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/628089976789385216/jaskier-falls-in-love-with-geralt-fast-and-hard

Jaskier falls in love with Geralt fast and hard, sudden and all-consuming. The moment he claps eyes on him in Posada he’s entranced: he’s beautiful and he’s brooding, covered in dust from the road. Tall, fair, and mysterious, he exudes excitement and adventure. And Jaskier likes to think that even back then he recognised Geralt’s sly humor and soft heart.

It’s not like that for Geralt.

Geralt doesn’t fall in love with Jaskier. He wades into love, eyes wide open, one step at a time.

When he returns from a hunt to find Jaskier waiting for him with a bath at the ready, or when an alderman casually insults witchers and Jaskier tries to claw his eyes out. When he’s hurt on a job and Jaskier drags him out of a filthy cave, eyes brimming with tears, voice shaking as he asks _how can I help?_ When he catches Geralt’s gaze during a performance and beams, as if his day has been brightened by his very presence.

With each of these moments, Geralt takes another shaking step forward, the waters pooling around his ankles.

It’s not like the yearning of two souls finding their match that he had with Renfri, or the sparks and fireworks that he has with Yennefer. It’s quieter, more domestic. Fewer exhilarating, dramatic declarations, and more calm, everyday moments.

It’s the way that Jaskier always gathers the kindling for the fire because he knows Geralt finds it tedious. It’s the reassuring companionship of evenings under the stars while Jaskier plucks out old folk tunes on his lute and Geralt sharpens his swords. It’s the way that Jaskier’s fluttering heartbeat is the first thing he hears in the morning as he wakes and the last thing he hears before he sleeps, a sound he’d know anywhere, a sound which means home.

The water is comfortable and familiar as it rises to his hips.

Witchers aren’t supposed to feel this way, but there’s something inside him which grows and blossoms whenever Jaskier takes his hand or gently washes his hair, or when he calls out Geralt’s name when he’s afraid. It’s something delicate but strong, like spider silk, stretching with the contours of their lives but never snapping.

He watches Jaskier in the firelight: the way his finely featured face is painted in shades of red and orange and the way his fingers dance dexterously across his lute strings. The furrow of his brow as he concentrates and the satisfied quirk of his lips when he nails a difficult passage. It’s a night like any other, like hundreds before it, like hundreds yet to come.

Geralt lets the waves close over his head and gives himself over to it, to Jaskier, body and soul.


	2. Doing kind things for each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/624363149688274944/hi-there-i-love-your-work-ive-only-found-your

“Here.” Geralt tosses the package at Jaskier, who catches it with a puzzled frown.

“What’s this?” Jaskier asks, unwrapping the paper. When he sees the coiled lute strings inside, his face softens into something uncomfortably fond. “Oh, Geralt. How did you know?”

Geralt has learned Jaskier’s lute gains a slight tinny reverberation when its strings are getting worn. And when they inevitably snap, Jaskier complains and moans endlessly until he gets them replaced. Best to head off that need at the pass.

“Your lute sounds like shit,” Geralt growls.

“Everyone’s a critic,” Jaskier says with a dismissive wave of his hand. But he clutches the strings closely and continues to smile.

.

Geralt skins and cleans the rabbits, stoking the fire as he does. Jaskier has been dispatched to collect more firewood, so Geralt goes to his pack to retrieve the herbs that he insists on adding to their food. Geralt will grudgingly admit that they do improve the flavour.

In Jaskier’s pack he finds not only sprigs of sage and thyme, but also neatly bundled bunches of honeysuckle and mistletoe. He’s puzzling over this find when Jaskier returns to camp.

“You know these are poisonous to humans, right?” he indicates the bunches.

“I do in fact know that, Geralt, thank you.” Jaskier purses his lips. “I thought they might be of help in your potion making. I’ve seen you use those plants before.”

That’s… rather useful, actually. He tucks the bundles away in his potions bag, giving Jaskier an assessing gaze. Perhaps he’s been more attentive that Geralt had suspected.

Jaskier gives a shrug, not quite looking him in the eye. “I was gathering herbs anyway so I picked them while I was at it. It’s no big deal.”

.

Jaskier is shivering in the snow, his fancy doublet barely protecting him against the punishing northern weather. He’s progressed past complaining about the cold and into that concerning phase where he’s not saying anything at all. Even in the rare and blessed silence, Geralt can’t ignore the sound of his teeth chattering.

“For fuck’s sake,” Geralt scowls, unclasping his thick winter cloak from around his own neck.

He throws the garment at Jaskier. “Put that on before you freeze to death and I have to cart your lifeless corpse to the nearest village.”

.

Geralt cracks one eye open, and for his efforts gets a lance of pain through his skull. It’s always like this when the potions he takes for combat have worn off, leaving him depleted and full of aches.

He’s lucky to have a bed to sleep in. But he knows from experience that passing out straight after a job without cleaning and drying his armor is a mistake he’ll pay for in the long run.

Ignoring the pounding in his head, he props himself up on an elbow to search for the armor he dropped on the floor last night, and is surprised to see it cleaned and laid out carefully in front of the fire. Jaskier turns from where he’s wiping the grime from Geralt’s swords to tut at him.

“Go back to sleep,” Jaskier chides. “I’ve ordered some breakfast and I’ll wake you when it arrives.”

Jaskier doesn’t look like he’d accept any arguments. Fine. He can win this round. Geralt collapses back into slumber.

.

“Geralt.” Jaskier sticks his head around the door, chewing at his lip. Geralt can smell the anxiety coming off him in waves. “I find myself quite unable to sleep. It’s… far too cold in my room.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. It’s high summer and the air is thick and warm. Still, the two of them having separate rooms is not ideal. It’s harder than he would have expected, trying to sleep without the familiar patter of Jaskier’s heartbeat nearby.

“I thought we could share,” Jaskier continues, hopping from one foot to the other. “So that we might be prepared and together should any vile beast set upon us in the night.”

Geralt is fairly certain that the most dangerous beast in the vicinity is the innkeeper’s tabby cat, but he doesn’t mention that.

“Idiot,” he grumbles, thought there’s undeniably an affectionate edge to it. He makes space for Jaskier in the bed and lets out a tiny sigh of contentment as Jaskier scurries over and burrows in next to him, soft and familiar at his side.

“Curmudgeon,” Jaskier retorts, and kisses him on the cheek.

He puts an arm around Jaskier and splays a hand over his chest. Beneath his fingers, Jaskier’s heart beats strong and comforting, and finally, Geralt sleeps.


	3. Geralt hears Jaskier's thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/620552624480075776/ok-so-ive-seen-a-few-one-shots-about-if-jaskier

At first it was a godsdamned headache.

A fight with a mage, an errant spell, a loud _pop_ , and then Geralt could hear every one of Jaskier’s thoughts. It’s not clear which of them this is worse for, but Yennefer had looked them over and declared the spell should wear off in a few days, so until then they’re going to have to tough it out.

Geralt thought Jaskier was loud when he talked, but that was _nothing_ compared to his thoughts. They were a constantly running stream of irrelevant chitchat and trite observations, interrupted by childish daydreams and melodramatic narratives.

And the music. By gods, the _music_.

_LA da da dah da da da dah da LA da da dah da da dah daaaaa_

“Will you _stop?_ “ Geralt snaps. If he never has to hear that accursed fishmonger’s daughter song ever again, it would be fine by him.

“Oh.” Jaskier looks chastened. “Sorry. I’ll try.”

And then Geralt has to listen to his agonised attempts to keep his mind quiet and to hide how hurt and embarrassed he is.

Geralt feels a bit guilty about that, but it’s not his fault Jaskier has so many _feelings_. It’s exhausting just listening to them.

–

It’s not always awful, though.

They pass a field of flowers, and Geralt sees it as he’s been trained: there is celandine, used for mixing potions, and there is bison grass, used for blade oils.

But today he hears how Jaskier sees it: the bright yellow flowers joyfully upturned to the sun, the soft green grasses undulating in the breeze like the waves of the sea, the heady floral scent intertwining with the dust of the road and the comforting background of Roach and of Geralt, mixing together into a perfume that suggests _adventure_.

Geralt recalls a conversation from long ago. _You smell of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak_. At the time, he’d thought those were empty words, flowery nonsense from a child who liked spinning fantastical poetry.

Now he wonders if this is genuinely how Jaskier sees the world. And if he’s been feeling this strongly and observing this closely all this time.

–

It’s not so bad when Jaskier concentrates, when he corrals his thoughts into order and focuses on a new song or poem. The whirling of his mind is more streamlined, less distracting.

It’s almost… nice.

_Lovely garroter… hmm, no… gorgeous garroter. No, too alliterative. Or, hmm, keep it simple… garroter, jury and judge._

“The last one,” Geralt says without thinking about it. “It flows nicely. It doesn’t need a descriptor, the music carries the sentiment.”

There’s a whirlwind of emotions in Jaskier’s head which whip by too fast for Geralt to pick up on. In the end, Jaskier tilts his head and smiles, and Geralt can hear how much he appreciates his input. But there’s an undercurrent of sadness to Jaskier’s thoughts which he doesn’t quite understand.

–

Geralt sighs as he slides into the warm bath Jaskier has prepared for him. His whole body relaxes until he tries to comb through his hair with his fingers and finds it hopelessly matted with monster guts.

“Let me help,” Jaskier says. “Don’t pout at me. I know you enjoy this.”

He’s right, of course, and Geralt grunts his assent. Jaskier’s careful fingers slide into his hair, gently untangling the mess.

 _I enjoy it too. You have no idea how much_. The thought slips from Jaskier’s mind, and Geralt chooses to respect his privacy by ignoring it.

He ducks his head under the water to wash the gunk away. When he breaks the surface, Jaskier is smiling softly at him.

 _You’re beautiful_ , Jaskier thinks but doesn’t say.

That’s… well. Geralt has no idea what to think about that.

 _I’d make you feel good every day if you’d let me_. The words crystallise in his mind, clear as day, and with them a rush of heat and affection. Overhearing it feels like the warm water closing over his head, soothing and terrifying at the same time.

Jaskier is giving him an out, he realises. He could ignore the thoughts, write them off, not respond. Nothing has been said out loud, nothing that can’t be covered in plausible deniability.

He could ignore it, but perhaps he doesn’t want to. Perhaps it’s time that _he_ uses his words. He knows what Jaskier is thinking, but he’s seen to it that Jaskier has no idea what he’s thinking.

He takes Jaskier’s hand in his own. “I do enjoy this,” he says. “I like it when you look after me.”

A flurry of thoughts pass through Jaskier’s head, sweet and kind and filthy by turns. Geralt hears them loud and clear, and judging by the way Jaskier is blushing, he knows he’s been heard.

Geralt raises an eyebrow in interest. “Hmm.”

Perhaps this thought sharing business wasn’t so bad after all.


	4. In the spring, Jaskier smells like applewine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/190864171689/in-the-spring-jaskier-smells-like-applewine

In the spring, Jaskier smells like applewine, tangy and cloying, with a hint of the carrots he carries to bribe Roach into tolerating his presence.

In the summer, Jaskier smells of lavender oil. When Geralt lets Jaskier wash his hair, Jaskier runs the oil through the matted strands and for weeks after they part ways Geralt will catch its scent when a stray lock falls in his face. Even under the stench of blood and viscera, there remains a barely detectable note of lavender – something pure, something clean, something worth saving.

In the autumn, when they meet again, Jaskier smells of juniper and sage, sharp and warm and earthy all at once. When they stop in a town to resupply and enjoy the luxury of a real bed for once, Jaskier smells of warm bread and the linseed oil he uses to clean his lute.

In the winter, when Jaskier contracts a fever and Geralt has to care for him in an experience neither of them is keen to repeat, he smells sour and musky and so very fragile and human that Geralt can hardly bear to look at him for fear he might break.

In the hot, sticky months they spend in Toussaint, when they can’t keep their hands off each other and rut like beasts at every available opportunity, Jaskier smells of sweat and sex and _Geralt_ and it drives him to constant distraction.

They do make it to the coast, eventually, and there Jaskier smells of smoke from the wood-burning stove in their cottage and the salt tang of the sea.

Throughout it all, there’s the faintest trace of something familiar, but it takes Geralt months to place it: Buttercups, warm and rich like honey, fresh and green like a summer meadow. The scent of home.


	5. Steel & silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/610873328401629184/every-witcher-carries-two-swords-one-is-steel-and

Every witcher carries two swords. One is steel and one is silver.

Geralt sits by the fire, sharpening his steel sword. Steel is strong. It is powerful, cutting to the quick. It finds its target and it strikes down man or beast with determined efficiency.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Jaskier. The bard is plucking out a merry tune on his lute, fingers dancing across the strings.

“One of my finer compositions, don’t you agree, Geralt?”

Geralt huffs. “That’s not saying much.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Oh, hush. I can tell you’re enjoying it. You tap your foot when I play something you like, you know.”

Steel is strong, but it must be tempered or else it will shatter. It needs abrasion to keep it sharp.

–

Silver is weak and malleable. It buckles under pressure. A poor choice of material for a blade, most would say.

When darkness falls, Jaskier lies shivering by the dying embers of the fire. The night is cold, and his fine clothes do nothing to keep away the chill. All these months of traveling and he still hasn’t learned how to camp.

Geralt sighs. “Come here,” he says, turning over the corner of his blanket in invitation. Jaskier scurries over and huddles next to him, shivering still.

Geralt wraps the blanket around them both and Jaskier curls into him, hot breath puffing over his neck. When Geralt puts an arm around him, Jaskier makes a quiet noise of contentment and cuddles closer. An unexpected warmth blooms deep in Geralt’s chest.

Silver is soft and yielding. It cannot retain an edge.

But there is magic in silver. It fends off the darkness. It pierces the heart. It glistens so prettily that even monstrous things appear human when reflected in its shine.

And a witcher needs magic just as surely as they need strength.


	6. Accidentally married

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/613244674904326144/jaskier-wakes-up-with-a-pounding-headache-and-an

Jaskier wakes up with a pounding headache and an unfamiliar ring on his finger. 

He blinks as he brings his hand to his face and feels the ring’s weight, its perfect fit. It’s a hefty thing - chunky silver, with an elaborate raised design. Squinting at it makes his head spin though, so he drops his hand and tries to remember where he is.

He’s in an inn, a fairly nice one judging by the quality of the sheets. His lute is propped up by the door, his clothes in a pile by the bed, and Geralt is sleeping beside him, all of which is typical. His mouth tastes of arse and his stomach is rolling, but while those things might be unpleasant, a hangover is hardly an unfamiliar concept.

So why does he feel like there’s something important he’s missing? And just how much of that damnably sweet wine did he drink last night?

He glances back at the ring, as if it could hold some clue to his nocturnal activities. Looking closer, he sees the raised design is a wolf’s head, growling and sharp-toothed. It’s rather apt, actually, something pretty and shiny but vicious as well. Just the sort of thing he’d chose for himself if he could spare the coin.

Some fragment from last night floats into his head: “It’s an old Rivian custom,” a smiling woman at the bar tells him as she pours him more wine. He remembers finding that hilarious. “Like a handfasting,” someone had explained.

Oh gods. This was not good. He hadn’t gone and gotten himself married, had he? While this was not _technically_ the first time that had happened, he’d really hoped not to go through a repeat performance.

He wonders which comely local he’d agreed to settle down with this time, and how well they would take his inevitable decision to renege on his word. He winces at the thought of having to reject some amorous partner while trying not to throw up.

At least he can count on Geralt to back him up if things get nasty. They can be out of this town and on the road by the time the sun is up.

He rolls over to look at Geralt, who is uncharacteristically still asleep. Maybe he’d had too much to drink as well. Jaskier vaguely remembers the two of them ordering a second bottle of that cursed wine, and then a third, so that seems possible.

Geralt shifts and begins to wake, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes. As he does, Jaskier sees another ring around Geralt’s finger – also silver, shaped like a buttercup flower twisting around the band. It’s unaccountably pretty, something that seems far more suited to Jaskier than to…

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Geralt blinks sleepily, throws one arm over Jaskier, and nuzzles into his neck. “Good morning, husband,” he says, voice low and growly.

Well then. The day was looking up already.


	7. Geralt thinks about kissing Jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/628800748243877888/the-first-time-geralt-thinks-about-kissing-jaskier

The first time Geralt thinks about kissing Jaskier is in a packed, seedy tavern. The patrons are rowdy, the ale is watery, and the air is damp and sweaty. And yet, there’s Jaskier, joyously commanding the entire room as he performs, winking at audience members as he swans gracefully between the tables.

His hips sway to the beat of the music and his feet bounce across the floor, full of irrepressible energy. As he segues from one verse to the next, he pauses for a second and licks his lips. Geralt follows the movement precisely, entranced as the pink tip of his tongue flicks across plump, plush lips.

He’s hit by the urge to take Jaskier into his arms and press their lips together, to kiss him firm and deep and to feel that tongue playing into his mouth. He can almost picture it: Jaskier’s eyes widening at first and then crinkling with satisfaction, the little hitch of his breath, the softness of those lips against his own.

Coming back to himself, Geralt shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He has no idea where that strange thought came from. Best to put it aside and ignore it.

.

The next time it happens, the air is clear and there are stars overhead. It’s a warm Beltane evening and the local villagers are celebrating with wine and music and dancing. Geralt sits on a bench and observes while Jaskier, who has yellow flowers braided into his hair, dances around a maypole with a bright red ribbon in hand.

There’s a moment when he looks up and catches Geralt’s eye, and the tiniest smile flicks across his lips. It’s not one of his big, crowd-pleasing grins, or the flirtatious smirk he flashes when he’s on the prowl. It’s a tiny, genuine thing, a signal of real warmth and care, the kind given out rarely, making it all the more precious.

Geralt imagines standing and joining the dancers, Jaskier giving him that smile again. He imagines leaning in, inhaling that scent of lavender and road dust, running a hand through his hair, and kissing the smile from his lips. He’d smell like campfires and he’d taste like sweet wine.

.

He should have been faster. He should have been smarter. He should have known the bruxa had a mate, and he should have been ready to fight two rather than one.

But recriminations won’t help him now, as he’s bleeding out in a damp stone cellar. The Swallow he’s taken will slow his heart rate, but the gash in his side where he was swiped with sharp claws is too deep and he won’t survive the blood loss.

It’s a stupid, pointless way to die.

And then a beam of light spears through the cellar as the shutters are thrown open and a familiar face appears, peering into the darkness. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s nose wrinkles as he tries to see in the dark. “Are you… oh gods…”

Relief washes over Geralt like sliding into a warm bath. Everything will be okay now that Jaskier is here. Even though Jaskier’s breath is heaving and his hands shake as he presses a linen pad to Geralt’s side, he knows what to do.

Jaskier leans over him, takes his face in his hands. “Geralt, stay with me,” he begs.

Geralt wants to tell Jaskier that he’ll always stay with him. He wants to wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him closer. He wants to kiss the unhappy twist off his lips.

But he can’t do any of those things with blood pouring out of his side, so instead, he passes out.

.

The winter has been long and cold and lonely, and even the other wolf witchers could only distract Geralt for so long. For weeks he’s been itching to head south, to greet the sun and the Path, and most importantly to meet Jaskier once again. It’s a thrumming want inside him, one that barely whispers its intentions even as it drives him forward along the roads of Velen.

And then, on a beaten path outside an unremarkable village, he spots him: Jaskier, shining like a jewel in bright clothing which is eclipsed only by the brightness of his smile. There’s something so familiar about the sight of his bard on the dusty road that Geralt’s heart leaps in his chest.

Before he has time to think, Geralt’s feet are carrying him forward and he’s sweeping Jaskier into his arms, lifting him off the ground, hugging him close as he squeals and giggles.

He sets him carefully back on his feet and basks in the warmth of his presence, admiring the way Jaskier ducks his head and the bashful grin that lifts his cheeks.

Geralt wants, with a powerful yearning that’s been building all winter, to take his beautiful face in his hands and to kiss him with all the longing he’s been burying away all this time. 

For a moment he feels like he might finally have the courage to follow through. He cups the back of Jaskier’s head, feels the soft curls of his hair between his fingers, enjoys the look of surprise and delight on Jaskier’s face as he tilts his chin up to face him.

 _But_ … his mind supplies. _What if it’s unwanted? What if he’s misread the situation? What if he messes up the one solid friendship he has?_

He falters.

.

Jaskier registers the second that Geralt’s doubts arrive, when he draws back into himself and retreats from their embrace.

“Oh, hell no,” he says, earning a surprised bark of a laugh from Geralt. 

Jaskier has been waiting _months_ for this, even before his long, boring winter at Oxenfurt. Months of noting the way that Geralt looks at him, the way his eyes will flick to his lips at intense moments. Months of holding himself back, resisting his own urges, letting Geralt come to him.

He’s done waiting.

“I missed you,” he says, and Geralt’s hands squeeze him a little tighter, betraying his emotions even as he works to keep his face impassive. “And I think you missed me too.”

He lifts his hand to cup Geralt’s cheek, and Geralt goes very, very still, barely breathing. A few years ago Jaskier would have taken that for a rebuke, but he knows Geralt better by now. He’s holding himself back from what he thinks he shouldn’t want.

“Silly witcher,” he chides, and kisses him.

Geralt is still as stone beneath his lips, and Jaskier has just enough time to wonder if he’s made a terrible mistake. But then Geralt is pulling him closer and kissing him back as if he’s been starving for it, lips and teeth and tongue, hands clasping at his back and running into his hair like he wants to touch everywhere at once.

They’re both panting by the time they pull apart, and Jaskier can’t help but match Geralt’s dopey smile. 

“It’s good to see you too, Geralt.”


	8. Geralt doesn’t touch Jaskier often

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/625551895241670656/geralt-doesnt-touch-jaskier-often-geralt-doesnt

Geralt doesn’t touch Jaskier often. Geralt doesn’t touch anyone often, actually, outside of combat or paid company. It makes people uncomfortable, and there’s only so many times he can see others flinch away from his touch before it feels personal.

Witchers are not things for touching. But someone forgot to tell that to Jaskier. Jaskier is never afraid to bump shoulders when they walk side by side or to grab Geralt’s forearm when he’s telling an exciting story. Jaskier touches him so casually, and every time he does something hot thrums under Geralt’s skin.

Geralt knows better, though. He’ll haul Jaskier around by the scruff of his neck to move him out of harm’s way, but only in an emergency. Other than that, he keeps his hands to himself.

At least, that’s how it goes at first, until little inadvertent moments start to creep into their lives. Their fingers will brush when he hands Jaskier a hunk of meat from the spit, or he’ll clap Jaskier on the back when they reunite in the spring. And every time he does so, Jaskier’s heart picks up a pace and his scent is overlaid with something warm and spicy.

Geralt allows himself some cursory experimentation. He pats Jaskier’s hand to wish him luck before a performance and Jaskier’s face breaks into a lovely smile. He flicks Jaskier’s ear when he teases him and Jaskier giggles uproariously before attempting, unsuccessfully, to flick him back. When they’re cornered by a pack of ghouls on a job, he doesn’t think twice before grabbing Jaskier’s hand and running.

He keeps waiting for Jaskier to shrink away from his touch, but he never does, no matter how dangerous the situation or how covered Geralt is in monster guts. On nights when their coin only covers a single room at an inn, Geralt will settle himself on the bed at a respectful distance, but Jaskier has never cared for being respectable and will wind himself around Geralt by the time the sun is up. Sometimes, Geralt will wake early and allow himself to luxuriate in the feeling of Jaskier pressed close to him.

It’s a cool summer evening when they decide to camp out under the stars. For once their packs are bulging with food and their coin had even stretched to a couple of wineskins. They set up camp in the glow of twilight, and Geralt can’t stop looking at the way the soft red light of the setting sun streaks through Jaskier’s hair. He’s fussing over a blanket, but Geralt mischievously plucks it from his hands and tosses it over his shoulder.

“Hey!” Jaskier objects, but he’s smiling, and his smile only widens when Geralt takes a step closer. From here, he can see each of Jaskier’s eyelashes, flitting prettily over the deep blue of his eyes. Geralt lets himself indulge, cupping Jaskier’s cheek in his hand. His skin is soft and warm beneath his fingers, just as he’d imagined it would be. He strokes Jaskier’s cheek with his thumb, and the scent of cloves and cinnamon fills the air.

His eyes are caught by the plump pink of Jaskier’s mouth. Carefully, not wanting to break the moment, he runs his thumb down and over Jaskier’s bottom lip. The clove scent blooms, and with the slightest pressure Jaskier opens his mouth, letting Geralt’s thumb slide inside, the tip of his tongue playing against the pad of his thumb.

Jaskier’s heart is thundering, but there’s none of the acrid smell of fear. There’s only the warmth of cloves suffusing the air between them, and the heat of Jaskier’s mouth around his thumb.

Geralt tilts his head.

Hmm.

Interesting.


	9. Jaskier gives great hugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/632710471106150400/jaskier-looks-like-he-gives-great-hugs-not-that

Jaskier looks like he gives great hugs.

Not that Geralt has noticed. Not that he’s been paying close attention. It’s just that, when meeting a friend or saying goodbye to an acquaintance, it’s hard not to see that Jaskier is a hugger. 

Even with someone he doesn’t know well, he’ll wrap his arms around them and pull them close. The other person always looks happy, and they’ll rest their head on Jaskier’s shoulder, and Jaskier will make a little contended noise.

It looks nice.

Jaskier doesn’t hug Geralt, of course. That would be weird. Wouldn’t it? It’s not as if they meet or part frequently, and it’s not like he could just… ask for a hug. That would be wrong. There’s some sort of social rule against it, he’s sure. And anyway, Geralt is not a touchy person, and he doesn’t touch Jaskier more than he needs to, and that’s _fine_.

He does, however, wonder about it, with a sort of idle curiosity. Jaskier’s hair always smells good, like lavender, and he imagines that if Jaskier hugged him he’d be surrounded by that lovely scent. And maybe he’d feel the firm planes of Jaskier’s shoulders beneath his hands, and maybe the soft plump of his belly. Maybe Jaskier would make one of those happy sounds and cuddle into him. Perhaps that might be nice.

It’s not like he thinks about it often though.

It’s a chilly autumn evening when he lets Jaskier know he’s off on a wraith hunt and he’ll be gone for a few days. Jaskier can stay in the village where he’ll be safe and can earn some coin, and Geralt will be back soon enough. Jaskier nods, unworried, part of the familiar rhythm they’ve settled into.

This time though, as he’s packing his potions and swords and readying to leave, something unexpected happens. Jaskier hands him his travel cloak, tells him to be safe, and throws his arms around his shoulders, quick and light, like he thinks Geralt is going to push him away.

“For luck,” Jaskier says, patting his back carefully.

Geralt is stunned, but he’s also warm and cosy, and without thinking he puts his arms around Jaskier’s waist and pulls him in. Jaskier makes a happy, surprised little _mmph_ sound and leans against his chest, giving him a squeeze, and Geralt feels snug and cherished and he tucks his face into Jaskier’s hair and he can smell that lavender scent that he loves. Everything is homey and bright and soft and agreeable, and he perhaps lingers there with Jaskier in his arms for a moment longer than is strictly necessary.

Hugging Jaskier _is_ nice, as it turns out, and he departs for the hunt with a spring in his step and a curl of warm affection in his chest. 

Perhaps he can find a way to get Jaskier to do it again.


	10. Geralt despises hot days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/625807845166874624/geralt-despises-hot-days-hes-used-to-the-cold

Geralt despises hot days. He’s used to the cold – he grew up in Kaer Morhen, after all – and witchers run hotter than regular humans, so low temperatures are rarely a problem for him.

But when the sun is beating down and sweat is dripping down the back of his neck, his armor feels heavier and bulkier than ever. Roach will express her displeasure too, huffing and demanding frequent breaks to drink.

Geralt far prefers an overcast day, or even a rain shower. Low clouds lessen the glare for his sensitive eyes, which do well in darkness but give him headaches when the sun is too bright. And a blanket of rain dampens the sounds of the world, making everything softer and muted and more comfortable for a while.

Alas, the quiet of a rainy afternoon is inevitably broken by Jaskier moaning about his damp feet. If he’d buy sensible waterproof travelling boots instead of the pretty court boots he likes to wear, that wouldn’t be a problem, but “One must suffer for fashion!” as he likes to remind Geralt.

Jaskier, of course, loves the sunshine. When the sun is out he chatters and sings even more than usual, if that were possible, buoyed by clear skies and balmy air. Disagreements over the weather are the cause of quite a few arguments between them.

Eventually, though, they do discover the perfect compromise: a summer storm, when the night is warm but the rain falls in fat droplets, bouncing off armor and cloaks with a soft pitter-patter. The air is filled with the scent of damp earth, rich and musky and atmospheric.

They find a cave to use as a shelter and sit at its mouth, the sound of the rain falling heavily around them. When lightning flashes and thunder booms overhead, Jaskier jumps and Geralt hides a smile. He puts one arm around Jaskier, who tucks his head into his shoulder, and together they watch the rain, for once both of them feeling right at home.


	11. Jaskier bonds with Ciri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/616021257146810368/so-we-know-that-yennifer-teaches-ciri-about-magic

Ciri strolls back into Kaer Morhen with a grin on her face and and stinking ekimmara hide slung over her shoulder. 

It had taken weeks of negotiating, but she’d _finally_ been allowed out on her first contact on her own. Yen had prepared her to use her magic, but only if absolutely necessary, and Geralt had lectured her endlessly about monster lore she already knew.

Yen spies her entering from her tower and gives her a proud nod. Ciri glows and nods back, then pushes open the door of the keep.

“How was the contract?” Geralt asks, rushing over to help her with her gear. Most people wouldn’t notice, but Ciri sees that he’s nervous.

“It was great!” She puts a hand on his arm to reassure him. “Killed the ekimmara. Got paid. Even got thanked by the alderman.”

Geralt relaxes fractionally. “And did you remember to use the vampire oil I made for you?”

She laughs and rolls her eyes. “I’m not an _idiot_. Of course I did.”

He relents, apparently satisfied. She drops the foul hide on the floor and heads straight for the kitchen. Fighting monsters makes one hungry and something smells good.

Jaskier is there, preparing soup. He pulls a face at the goop covering her shoulder but kisses her on the cheek anyway. “How’s my favorite little witcher?” he asks, warm as ever.

“Good!” she says. “The townspeople were nice.” Then picking at the hem of her shirt, “The alderman… he had a daughter.”

Jaskier raises a knowing eyebrow. “A maid as fair as a spring morning.”

Ciri giggles, in spite of herself. “Oh, Jask, she was _divine_.”

“Did she have a name?”

“Esme,” Ciri says with a little sigh. She had been so soft and lovely, resplendent in red silk. She’d even smelled good when she had taken Ciri’s hand to thank her for saving their town.

“And will you be seeing this vision of loveliness again?”

Ciri looks at the floor. “I don’t think so. She was very nice but I didn’t know what to say.”

“Ahh, sweet child. Nerves get the best of all of us at times.“

She fidgets. “I don’t… I don’t really know how I would… go about saying something when I, you know, _like_ someone. I thought I could ask Geralt, but…”

Jaskier grimaces. “Ugh, best avoid asking Geralt for advice on that.” He has the look of a man who has seen some atrocious things in his time. “He is a dearheart, but… unfinessed in the finer arts of communication.” Jaskier throws an arm around her shoulders. “Fret not, my angel. Let me take you under my wing. For there’s no better tutor in the fine art of flirting than I.”

Ciri giggles and puts her arm around his waist. “Very well then, esteemed tutor. How shall we begin?”

Jaskier pauses, considering carefully. “As tempted as I am to start your education with lewd poetry, Geralt would never forgive me. We shall begin with eye contact and flirtatious conversation. Sound good?”

“Perfect. You’re the best, uncle Jask.”

He beams. “Anything for you, my dear.”


	12. The scent of home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/632801012408893440/when-jaskier-is-excited-he-smells-like-juniper

When Jaskier is excited, he smells like juniper and pine, fresh and zingy and ready for life’s adventures. He smells that way every time Geralt gets a contract on a type of monster he hasn’t seen before, begging to hear details and strategies and thrilling tales, and he smells that way every spring when they reunite to head out on the Path, the two of them turning south together with Roach in tow.

When he gets anxious, when Geralt returns late from a hunt or when he hides his injuries poorly and Jaskier has to tend to him, Jaskier’s scent sours to a sharp, acidic lemon tang that tints the air around him. Geralt wants to wave it away each time; he’s just a witcher, he’ll be fine, there’s no need for Jaskier to worry.

There’s a heavy, cloyingly sweet scent like cherries and watermelon that he emanates whenever he’s horny, and gods know that seems to be practically all of the time. The scent spikes at strange and seemingly arbitrary times but Geralt is used to ignoring it by now.

If Jaskier gets sick or hurt, he smells off, like spoiled milk, and he’ll never ask for it but Geralt has learned that means they need to rest. Humans are sickly things and sleep a good deal, but Geralt has found he doesn’t really mind the extra time spent sat by the glowing embers of the fire.

He likes the way Jaskier smells late at night the best, when he’s comfortable and safe and teetering on the edge of sleep. As the fire burns down and his chatter gradually tails off, he’ll wrap his bedroll around himself like a snail in its shell. If the night is cool or if he’s feeling particularly tactile, he’ll wave Geralt over to join him and curl up next to him with a happy sigh.

At these times, he smells like lavender and honey and chamomile, sweet and herbaceous and floral all at once. It’s an assault on the senses, a riot of sensation, but Geralt finds himself pulling him closer all the same, inhaling that spot behind his ear where his scent is the strongest, and it always smells, to him, like home.


	13. Jaskier is a tactile person

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/627450818066595840/jaskier-is-a-tactile-person-he-appreciates-the

Jaskier is a tactile person. He appreciates the curved wooden ribs of his lute and the cool silk of a fine doublet. He enjoys the soft, yielding flesh of summer berries and the silky feel of a woman’s thigh. Touching another person conveys greeting, affection, intimacy, and for him the upturned hands of an audience are an affirmation and a balm.

His hands are always moving, tapping, seeking out new stimuli, grasping at table edges or fidgeting with blades of grass or flowers.

But Geralt is not like that. Geralt recoils from touches, shies away on the rare occasion that anyone tries to take his hand.

So Jaskier does his best to adjust, to respect that and to rein in his urge to touch. He doesn’t run his hands over the hard planes of Geralt’s armour. He doesn’t brush their fingers together when he hands him ingredients for his potions. He doesn’t play with the strands of silver that flop into Geralt’s face when he wears his hair loose.

Touching is how he knows the world, but it’s not how he knows Geralt.

Still, there are nights when empty purses or biting cold necessitate sharing sleeping space. They spend nights uncomfortably close on saggy straw mattress in village inns, or with their bedrolls laid out side by side in chilly caves.

Every time they settle in to sleep, Jaskier lies on his hands and is careful to maintain a decent distance between them. And every morning he wakes with his arms around Geralt, pressed close, hands grasping greedily and face buried in the worn cotton of Geralt’s shirt.

For a moment before he opens his eyes, everything is warm and soft and perfect. After that it’s really rather mortifying.

.

Geralt doesn’t need human contact. He doesn’t need anyone. The desire for comfort, for a home, for plentiful food and friendship and an easy life, these are human needs, and the role of a witcher leaves no room for such luxuries.

He understands that people fear his touch. He sees it when payment is thrown at him rather than handed over, and when he’s charged extra at a brothel for a girl brave enough to see to him. People want witchers to kill their monsters, but they don’t want to offer them an open hand. He soon learned to stop expecting it.

But he has moments of weakness. He lets Jaskier wash his hair, and the feel of nails scratching at his scalp sends shivers down his spine. He notices a smudge of ink on Jaskier’s cheek and he can’t help but wipe it away with his thumb. Jaskier’s skin is soft and warm beneath his hand and he yearns to stroke and to hold.

It’s worst when he is sleeping. Awake, he can restrain himself. Asleep, he has no defences. Yet Jaskier lies next to him willingly and sleeps apparently peacefully, even in close quarters with an inhuman beast.

He waits until Jaskier is asleep before he relaxes. He doesn’t move, but he lets himself look: the plump pink of his cheeks, the elegant line of his nose, the bouncing chestnut waves of his hair. Jaskier’s hair looks soft, like it would feel silky if he were to twirl it around his fingers.

He falls asleep thinking of textures and warmth, and he wakes up with Jaskier in his arms and a hand cradling the back of his head. Jaskier’s hair is soft, like he imagined, and he can feel his rapidly fluttering heartbeat against his skin. His breath is warm against his chest, in and out, in and out, a soothing tempo of sensation.

It’s not fair, Geralt knows, to take advantage in this way. It’s not right that his unconscious mind should reach for Jaskier to fulfill needs he shouldn’t even have. He ought to stop doing this. He has to stop doing this.

But in these liminal minutes before the first rays of sunlight come streaming through the window and the night irrevocably fades into day, for just a few precious moments, he allows himself to feel.


	14. Jaskier shaves Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/626986852215291904/oh-god-you-know-what-i-suddenly-want-to-see

The blade glints in the firelight, flashes of silver catching Geralt’s eye as Jaskier turns the razor over in his hands, studying his features.

“You’re sure?” Jaskier seems nervous, but his hands are steady.

Geralt glowers at him, though it’s in a way that he knows Jaskier will read as affectionate. “Get on with it, bard.”

“Alright, alright, getting on.”

Jaskier pours a generous amount of oil into his hands and steps closer so can spread it over his cheeks and chin. This close, he can see the flecks of grey in Jaskier’s eyes and the soft crinkles of his crow’s feet. Jaskier’s hands are warm against his face and the scent of chamomile blooms as his fingers work. He pulls back and their eyes lock, and the moment stretches like molasses.

“Right then.” Jaskier pats off his hands and fingers the razor. “Stay still for me.”

His fingers tilt Geralt’s chin upward and he brings the blade to his throat. Even with the sharp steel grazing his adam’s apple, Geralt feels no apprehension. He bares his neck to Jaskier willingly.

Jaskier moves with careful strokes, a smooth slide across his skin. The room is quiet except for the swish of the razor. Jaskier’s brow is furrowed in concentration and Geralt feels the urge to wipe away the lines with his thumb, but he’s fairly sure Jaskier wouldn’t appreciate him moving.

Soon his neck is smooth, then his chin, and finally Jaskier moves onto his cheeks. He’s dexterous with the blade, and Geralt is reminded that for all his impractical finery and his irreverent chatter, he is a man of many hidden talents.

A final few delicate scrapes and the last of the stubble is gone. His skin feels tingly and exposed, but he knows Jaskier will tend to him. After patting him down with a cloth, Jaskier smothers more oil onto his face, soothing the raw skin with his touch.

As he finishes, Jaskier lifts his chin again and their eyes meet.

“There,” he says with a shy smile. “Now you’re perfect.”


	15. Geralt taking care of Jaskier for once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/613684443004239872/des8pudels8kern-asked-geralt-taking-care-of

This was not how the job was supposed to go. It was supposed to be a simple task: a few drowners in a swamp, enough coin to earn them food and a bed for a few nights. Jaskier would stay on the road and Geralt would dispatch the monsters. Easy.

Except, as it turns out, there was swamp on both sides of the road, and no one in the village had bothered to mention that. Geralt has made quick work of his targets and is walking back to the road when he sees something slithering out of the swamp behind Jaskier, raising a hideous clawed hand, and he yells a warning and breaks into a run but he’s too far away, and all he can do is watch the claws come slashing down into Jaskier’s torso.

Geralt is at his side in seconds, silver sword slicing the last monster’s head clean off before it can strike again. But Jaskier has already fallen to his knees, blood pouring from a ragged, ugly gash in his shoulder.

In moments like this, Geralt’s training is his salvation. He is calm as he placates Jaskier, sits him down against a tree, and fetches clean bandages and a med kit from the saddlebags. His hands don’t shake as he pours a salve over the wound, he doesn’t flinch when Jaskier screams as the salve bubbles and burns out the infection. He is focused, intent on his work, and mercifully Jaskier passes out once he begins stitching him up.

He dresses the wound, gets them both onto Roach, and rides hard for the village.

.

At least now he’s got Jaskier conscious and into a warm bath. His head is lolling to one side and his eyes sometimes slide out of focus, but he’s mostly lucid and, for better or worse, he’s still talking.

Geralt interrupts Jaskier’s rambling monologue detailing the epic song he intends to write about his glorious battle with the drowner to check his temperature, pressing the back of his hand to Jaskier’s forehead. He’s warm but not hot, so it seems that the salve did its job and he doesn’t have a fever.

“Thanks,” Jaskier mumbles. “Fo’ looking after me.”

Geralt isn’t ready to move out of efficient survival mode and into dealing with the black pit of his feelings about Jaskier getting hurt just yet. He keeps his emotions deliberately at arm’s length and focuses on his task, gently washing Jaskier’s limbs and making sure the wound doesn’t get wet. “Hmm.”

“Hey,” Jaskier’s gaze is wandering but he does his best to fix his eyes on Geralt. “’S not your fault,” he says woozily. “Don’t gimme that look. You think it’s your fault I got attacked, but it’s not. You rescued me.” He looks delirious and confused, but also proud and rather pleased.

Geralt lets himself bask in the genuine warmth in Jaskier’s voice, just for a moment. Even in this state, Jaskier still trusts him, still values him.

He reaches out and brushes a lock of hair out of Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier almost leans into it, and Geralt allows his hand to rest against his face for a moment longer than is necessary.

Jaskier smiles, slow and soft, like he knows what Geralt can’t say.

With some awkward shuffling he gets Jaskier out of the bath, dried off, and into bed. Jaskier’s eyelids are drooping already, his body demanding sleep so that it can heal.

“You’re good at this,” Jaskier says as Geralt lays a blanket over him. “‘S nice that you care.”

The black pit of emotions bubbles up again and Geralt very carefully avoids acknowledging it.

“Sleep now,” he says, and he can’t resist brushing the hair from Jaskier’s forehead once more. Jaskier hums happily when he does. “I’ll be here when you wake.”


	16. Protective Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/612411079875821568/protective-geralt-or-protective-jaskier

Geralt pulls in a sharp breath when he walks into their room to find Jaskier slumped on the bed. His left eye is swollen and is turning purple, and blood drips from his split lip onto his torn and filthy clothes.

When he sees Geralt, his faces twists into a lopsided attempt at a smile. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, but he flinches as he speaks.

A wave of white hot rage races through Geralt at the sight and he feels his eyes start to darken to pitch black pits. He fights the emotions back, pushes them down as he’s practiced so many times. He won’t frighten Jaskier, not when he’s in this state.

Instead, he kneels by the bed and slowly reaches out to take Jaskier’s chin in his hand, careful to avoid his injuries.

“Who did this to you?”

Jaskier sniffles and looks down, radiating shame. “Just some drunks looking for an outlet for their anxieties,” he mumbles. “I should have seen it coming.”

Geralt will never comprehend how mankind can be so vicious.

“They took my lute.” Jaskier’s bottom lip trembles, like he’s trying hard not to cry. “I… I really loved that lute.”

Geralt grants him the dignity of pretending not to notice his delicate blue eyes welling with tears. “It’s okay,” he offers, even though it clearly isn’t. He has never been gifted at comforting others. “I’m here.”

Jaskier falls into him with a sob, wrapping arms around his waist and weeping into his neck. Geralt holds him and gently pets his hair, the way he would calm a frightened horse.

“I‘m sorry,” Jaskier sniffles. “I should be able to look after myself. But there were six of them and I didn’t know what to do.”

The rage that Geralt had pushed aside earlier returns, sharpened to a fine point, a fierce determination that this cruelty will not go unpunished.

“It’s alright,” he promises, low and quiet. “I’m going to find them. And I’m going to make them pay for what they did to you.”


	17. Jaskier cooks for Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/616666347294883840/hey-thankyou-for-your-service-to-this-fandom

Geralt’s preferred food is ‘as much as possible of whatever is available,’ Jaskier has noticed. Whether it’s rich tavern meals or sad dried jerky when they’re on the road, Geralt will shovel whatever is on his plate into his mouth as efficiently as he can without paying it the least bit of attention. It tugs at something in Jaskier’s chest, observing the way he always seems to be hungry but he never seems to enjoy eating.

Except, that is, on the very rare occasions that they come across fresh summer berries. Hand Geralt a strawberry and he’ll grasp it carefully as a ruby, hold it up to the light to admire it, and bite into it in small nibbles, savouring every drop of juice.

It feels special, to know that little personal quirk about him, and it makes Jaskier warm inside to think of it.

So of course Jaskier takes any opportunity he can to indulge Geralt’s weaknesses. And not to be too self aggrandising, but he has really outdone himself this time: The berry pie he’s been carefully hiding in his pack all day smells mouthwatering.

As they finish their evening meal of stew and settle by the fire for the evening, he produces the pie with a flourish, and hands it to Geralt.

Geralt frowns at first, like he’s confused, so Jaskier gives him a _go on then, eat it_ gesture. He waits with bated breath, trying to play it casual as Geralt takes the pie from him, sits by the fire, and takes a bite.

Geralt grunts. “It’s good.”

Jaskier beams. For Geralt, that was practically ecstatic.

“Really good.” Geralt narrows his eyes, thoughtful. “Where did you find strawberries at this time of year?”

“Oh, I have my ways.” It had involved a herbalist and had cost him a week’s performances worth of coin, but Geralt didn’t need to know that.

Geralt looks at him, head titled, and Jaskier sees the moment that Geralt figures it out.

“You made this? For me?”

It’s hard to tell in the firelight, but he almost looks like he might be smiling.

Jaskier fights down a blush. “I did. I know how much you like berries.”

“Hmm.” Geralt looks down, takes another bite. Looks back up, and he definitely is smiling now, eyes crinkling with fondness and face soft with affection. “Thank you. It’s… nice. To have someone… you know. Notice.”

Jaskier’s heart does something funny in his chest. The weeks he’d spent covered in flour and burning his fingers on hot pie dishes seem worth it. If it made Geralt smile like that, he’d have to spoil him more often.


	18. Jaskier does little favours for Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/634701862616121344/geralt-growled-deep-in-his-throat-the-fine-locks

Geralt growled deep in his throat, the fine locks of silver falling in his eyes no matter how he moved his head. His hair was the one part of his appearance he took something approaching pride in, but right now it was nothing but an annoyance as he tried to flick it out of his vision.

“Here.” Jaskier untied a length of leather from around his wrist and handed it to Geralt.

Geralt stared at the leather cord dumbly. Why would Jaskier be carrying around such a thing?

“I know how you hate hair in your face,” Jaskier said with a shrug. “And I know you can never find a hair tie when you need one.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. That seemed awfully observant for someone as apparently vacuous as Jaskier. Still, it was handy, he reflected as he tied his hair back and went off in search of dinner.

–

The rain had been falling in sheets all afternoon, an inescapable blanket covering the entire valley. The mud churned up as he stomped back to the village was of not concern, considering he was already filthy with kikimore guts.

But poor Roach. He‘d left her in a pasture outside of the village, needing to proceed quietly and certain she’d be able to see off any thieves who troubled her. Now, though, she’d have been stood in the rain for hours.

When he approach the paddock, however, Roach was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a very soggy bard waving at him.

“Geralt! Finish up the contract? Yes, I see the heads. Good job with that,” Jaskier chattered away as soon as he approached.

Geralt squinted. “What happened to Roach?”

“Oh, I took her to the stables when it started to rain. Poor girl deserves a nice warm room. But I know how you feel about her and I didn’t want you to worry when you returned to find her gone. So here I am instead!”

“Hmm.”

–

His head was pounding and the gash on his side from the griffin’s claws ached, but he forced himself upright anyway. He needed to restock his potions – he was out of Swallow and he was at risk until he could make more. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he prepared to drag himself deeper into the forest to forage for the celandine he needed. 

But as he stumbled to his feet, Jaskier appeared and fussed at him until he sat back down. He was ready to push him away to start foraging when he noticed Jaskier had a bundle of green leaves clutched in his hand. 

A sniff confirmed they were celandine, and Jaskier handed them over, patting his hand as he did so.

“Why?” he snapped, and it came out angry because this _didn’t make sense_. People were supposed to hate and fear witchers, not do them little favours. Not to observe them and help them and _know_ them like this.

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier sighed, and his face softened into something tender. He took Geralt’s hand in his own, the warmth soaking through into his skin and lessening the pain thrumming in his head. 

Jaskier smiled, and it pulled somewhere deep in Geralt’s chest. “You know why.”


	19. Nighttime snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/636878608830464000/winter-prompts-nighttime-snow-geralt-sits-at

Geralt sits at the mouth of the cave watching the fat snowflakes fall. The night is close and quiet, its sounds deadened under a growing blanket of white. Behind him, the fire has burned down to embers and Jaskier huddles close to it, wrapped in a ludicrous number of blankets.

This is the first snow of the year and it falls in uncertain flurries – it has arrived earlier than usual, portending a bitter winter to come. Soon he will have to head north, to leave behind the green and the flat plains and the warmth of the south for the grey mountains of Kaer Morhen.

He’ll have to leave Jaskier behind as well, and for some reason that tugs at his heart more than in previous years. He glances over at Jaskier snoring softly, his mussed hair barely visible above the pile of blankets.

Jaskier isn’t made for winter, he thinks. He’s made for bright spring mornings and warm summer evenings, for crowds and laughter and joy. The fine silks he insists on wearing do little to keep him warm in the frigid months and the audiences he loves are few and far between.

And yet still, he stays. He follows Geralt into the cold and through the snow. He complains about his chilled toes and his frozen fingers but he walks alongside him all the same.

Perhaps, if Geralt asked him… perhaps he’d follow him just a little further, to Kaedwen and to Kaer Morhen. Perhaps he’d bring his warmth to that chilly fortress. Perhaps he’d be able to find the beauty in a place which for Geralt holds so many sad memories – he‘s good at that.

He turns away from the snow and looks to Jaskier instead. Silly, gaudy Jaskier, whose frippery hides a core of steel. He imagines him among the other wolves: Wheedling stories out of Eskel, trading teasing barbs with Lambert, helping Vesemir in the kitchen. Music floating through the dark halls, poetry filling the long evenings.

Unbidden, a smile tweaks the corners of his lips. With no one to observe it, he lets it spread over his face. A bard in Kaer Morhen… what a thought.

Maybe Jaskier won’t want to come. Maybe it will be too cold for him. But, Geralt thinks with a tiny flush, maybe he could find a way to keep him warm.


	20. Mutual pining dumbasses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/638883739658829824/pining-dumbasses-idea-whenever-geralt-does-a

Geralt isn’t a person who expresses himself through words. Jaskier is the one who’s good with words, who weaves them into beautiful poetry. When Geralt tries that it always comes out gruff and stiff and wrong. So instead, he expresses himself through his actions.

When he hunts an extra rabbit to make sure Jaskier is well fed, or when he sleeps between Jaskier and the door in a decrepit inn, or when he stays by Jaskier’s side to protect him from danger, he may as well be shouting his adoration from the rooftops. Surely it’s loud enough for anyone to hear.

And Jaskier sees that. When Geralt knits him a pair of soft fingerless mittens so he can keep his hands warm and still play the lute, he gasps and says they are clearly _a token of his affection_. When Geralt takes him to a village festival so he can dance and celebrate, he wobbles over to him and squeezes his cheeks and calls him _his dearest darling_. When he diverts their route to take them through the Blue Mountains so he can show Jaskier a particularly lovely view, he beams and says _oh sweetheart, you spoil me._

And when he spends a winter compiling a book of witcher lore with his brothers so he can present it to Jaskier in the spring, Jaskier leaps into his arms and hugs him tight. _This is how I know you love me!_ he laughs.

He knows! It fills Geralt with joy that Jaskier understands how he feels.

At night, he’ll hunt dinner for Jaskier and lay out his bedroll for him, finding just the right spot with no rocks or tree roots. He’ll smooth the fabric down and keep the fire well fed so it’s perfectly warm, and he’ll settle himself nearby.

He’s a little surprised that Jaskier hasn’t taken him up on this clear offer of physical intimacy yet, given how much he apparently enjoys the act.

But that’s ok. He can be patient. He’s sure Jaskier will come to him when he’s ready.

* * *

It makes Jaskier’s heart ache to pretend it’s all a joke.

“You do love me really,” he’ll say when Geralt does something kind for him. Or, “You treat me so well,” forcing himself to smile like it’s just a bit of fun between friends. If he says it in a light tone, no one need ever know how much he wishes it were real.

He knows Geralt does care about him. But just not in the way that he wishes. He is Geralt’s friend, closer than most others ever get, close enough that they can have these little jokes between them, and that’s grand.

It’s not Geralt’s fault that he wants so much more than that.

It only gets worse as time goes on, and Geralt really is so kind to him. He looks after him and shows him all sorts of wonderful sights. He makes him little gifts and hands them over with a gruff grunt, not looking him in the eye.

Jaskier will make a silly comment about how Geralt is really spoiling him for anyone else, how there will never be anyone else who could compare, and he’ll see the way that the corners of Geralt’s mouth will flick up in a tiny smile.

Geralt likes these jokes, Jaskier can see that. He enjoys this banter between friends. It’s too bad that it’s breaking Jaskier’s heart, to always pass off his feelings as a quip.

But if friendship is all he can ever have from Geralt, he’ll take that gladly. If only he could stop himself yearning for more.

* * *

Lambert would never admit it in a thousand years, but he’s actually pleased on the rare occasions he bumps into one of his brothers on the Path. This time, he’s not even mad that someone else is on the same contract for a cockatrice as he is, once he finds out that it’s Geralt. Geralt always splits payments fairly and he’s good for a few drinks too.

And, look, Lambert can admit that he’s a little curious, alright? He’s heard so much about Geralt’s wonderful bard – what a sweet person he is, what a considerate lover, blah blah blah – that he’s been wanting to meet this man who’s stolen his brother’s heart.

“So.” He smacks down three tankards of ale on the corner table in the tavern and sits down opposite the pair. “This must be the famous Jaskier.”

Geralt’s face does something funny. It takes a second for Lambert to recognise the expression as an extremely soppy smile.

“That’s me,” Jaskier says, offering a hand which Lambert takes. “Didn‘t realise my fame had spread as far as Kaer Morhen.”

Lambert waves a hand at Geralt. “It’s cause this one never shuts up about you. My bard this, my bard that, my Jaskier is the best.”

Jaskier’s cheeks flush. It’s kind of cute.

Lambert turns to Geralt. “So you finally got yourself a boyfriend, hmm?”

Geralt smiles even wider and says, “Yes,” just as Jaskier face pinches into something uncomfortable and he says, “No.”

Geralt turns to Jaskier with a look of stricken horror. Jaskier turns to Geralt with a look of distressed hurt.

Melitele’s fucking tits.

Lambert finishes his drink in one go. “Would you look at that,” he says loudly and to no one. “I’m going to the bar.”

He stands at the bar and politely pretends he can’t hear the argument in the corner: the recriminations, the tears, and the making up. Contrary to popular belief, he does have some manners.

He catches occasional snatches of “I thought it was obvious, how much more clear could I have been?” and “You need to use your _words_ , Geralt,” and “All I’ve ever wanted is you,” and “I’ve been yours since the day we met.” And a lot of sniffing and sniveling, and then a lot of gooey kissing sounds.

Eventually, they disentangle from each other long enough for Lambert to pop back. “Glad that’s sorted out, whatever the hell that was.”

They are staring at each other with wide-eyed adoration, barely even noticing his presence. Typical.

“Hey, Geralt, you’ll pick up the tab for tonight, won’t you?”

Geralt doesn’t listen to a word. “Uh huh,” he says vaguely, still starting in wonderment at Jaskier like the sun itself is shining from his eyes.

“Great. Have a good night then.” He raises an eyebrow at the way they can’t keep their hands off each other. “I’m sure you will.”

He returns to the bar for another drink on Geralt’s dime. He’s earned it.


End file.
